


take this feeling (and put it away somewhere safe)

by lookoutlovers



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, lucas honey i am so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:49:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25916125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookoutlovers/pseuds/lookoutlovers
Summary: in which being in love with your childhood best friend hurts in more ways than you could ever imagine.
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 54
Kudos: 246





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i luv pain <3 also i really have just abandoned all use of capital letters at this point i’m so sorry. pls enjoy !!

the gallery is perplexing. made up of things and feelings that lucas tries to reach into and pick apart. _tries._ he tries. but he’s never been good at that. it was always eliott’s thing to find a meaning in something and unfold it until it’s all loose ends and unraveling knots that he can continue to pull upon.

lucas doesn't know why, of all places, he came here. he’d seen the poster at the bus stop two days ago. _charity art exhibition, thursday 12th june,_ it said. like most of the posters he often sees there, it shouldn’t have really caught lucas’ attention. but he’d looked at it, blinking, and he couldn’t help but think that it looked a lot like the kind of thing eliott would probably love.

so. here he is, standing in front of this large gold framed painting, his head tilted back, glass of red wine in his hand, in a shirt that itches at his neck, and this devastating feeling of emptiness in his chest that he doesn’t know how to deal with. and eliott isn’t here, but lucas already knew that he wouldn't be, deep down, because why on earth would he? paris is big, far too big for something as silly as them bumping into one another somewhere like this to happen.

perhaps a small part of him had hoped, recklessly, that eliott might, by some odd chance, end up here too, and then they could say all of the things they had stubbornly shoved down all those years ago. scream them, even.

because art, eliott used to say, is like a scream. 

there was this flimsy postcard once, stuck to the fridge in his childhood home, the corners curled and faded from the sun. _the starry night,_ eliott had told him it was called. and lucas then, much like now, did not know much about art, not like eliott, but he remembers the vivid blues, the bursts of yellows; the subjective prettiness of it all. 

_it’s nice_ , he’d said. _it’s a cry for help,_ eliott responded vaguely, _i think_ _most art is like that, a cry for something, you know? help, attention, change,_ and looking at lucas, strangely, shrugging in the aloof way that most fifteen year olds tend to do, he’d said, _love._ and all lucas could really do, at this point, was knock their shoulders together, say, _that’s so deep_ , and hope that the sensation tugging in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for yet, passes.

what lucas is aware of now, at twenty-two, is feelings like that don’t just pass, you can only push them down or hide them away for so long until something snaps and shatters what you can’t hold back anymore.

he thinks, a bit pathetically, if he were to ever paint something, his scream, the scream that would be heard from miles out, would sound a lot like heartache.

sighing, he blinks at the painting one last time, frowning at the sharp slants and edges of it. _sunlight just before an eclipse,_ it’s called. 

the light before darkness rips it apart, lucas thinks.

he downs the last mouthful of his wine, and he goes.

*

it starts when they’re in high school, the glances that catch and then unfold into something else, maybe something more.

it’s something they’d never speak about, though, something that they’d laugh off, brush under the carpet, ignore all together.

yann notices first, says, _you’re different with eliott than you are with everyone else._ lucas just scoffs, thinks, _that’s ridiculous._ it’s only when, one night, the first night his father explodes, he finds that the only place he wants to run to — the only place that feels safe — is wherever eliott is.

that night, after showing up at eliott’s front door, tears in his eyes and a burning heaviness in his chest, eliott had held him close, the boyish smelling duvet curled around them, midnight pushing at the windows, words of reassurance spoken into the skin at lucas’ temple.

and lucas had thought, _it feels so safe with you._

things, they seemed so easy, then. that feeling, it was still something unnamed, something distant. maybe something a bit exciting.

now, it feels like a storm, and lucas is drowning in it.

*

the flat is quiet when lucas lets himself in. his keys echo in the empty hallway. the green flickering light of the fire exit guides him further inside.

yann is in the kitchen wrestling with a jar of pickles when lucas slumps into one of the creaky kitchen chairs.

“good night?” he asks, reaching for a dish cloth.

lucas thinks the fact that he’s home at eight-thirty sort of speaks for itself, but he shrugs nonetheless. “uneventful,” he provides lamely. 

yann makes a triumphant noise when the jar finally clicks open, and then he only has to take one look at lucas to know something isn’t right.

“hey. you okay?”

“eliott,” is all lucas can suffice. because that’s what it always comes down to in the end, isn’t it? eliott. he blinks and there’s tears and it’s embarrassing, really, humiliating, to know that someone who hasn’t even spoken to him in almost two years still manages to have this effect on him. eliott _shouldn’t_ still have this effect on him.

and yet.

yann is frowning, his hand is warm between lucas’ shoulder blades, suddenly all there and solid. “eliott? you saw him?”

“no,” lucas whispers, “no, yann. that’s the thing. i never do.” two years can feel like a lifetime when it’s spent longing for something you’ll never have. “why am i like this?”

 _“lucas.”_ the look yann sends him is completely disjointed. “it’s been two years.”

in the silence of the kitchen, beneath the staccato of their leaky faucet, a true meaning slips through, unspoken yet cutting. _you should be over this by now._

and lucas _knows this,_ he does. the fact that eliott clearly wants nothing to do with him anymore is evident, yet lucas can’t help the way he continues to cling onto a hope that maybe, someday, things could go back to the way they used to be. before feelings became too rooted deep in his heart to control. before love was a word lucas thought too much about. before the idea of just friends seemed like not enough anymore.

“we were best friends, yann. i can’t just forget about that.”

“just best friends?”

at this lucas glances up, a bit shocked. yann is watching him tentatively.

“what do you mean?”

“i just —” he sighs. “well, i always got the impression that it was more than that between you two, you know.”

“oh.”

yann scrunches his nose up. “no?”

“no it’s — well, yeah. but we never — he didn’t feel the same.”

it’s why they haven’t spoken, probably. not that lucas ever got an explanation, mind you. but he reckons eliott caught on, realised that lucas was feeling things he shouldn’t be and fled in an attempt to let him down easy. lucas doesn’t blame him for that. how could he? it’s his own fault for crossing that line.

see, the thing is, most of the time, when it comes to eliott, lucas is doing just fine. but other times, like when he’s cleaning out his drawers and comes across an old drawing, or when he puts on the radio and a certain song comes on, it feels a lot like he’s dying.

and he’s tired, so tired. he’s tired of missing him, tired of feeling like nothing is the same without him. he’s tired of hoping to catch a glimpse of him around every corner. he’s tired of hurting.

so he tries. he tries to move on, to fill up the gap in his heart by going out and seeing other people and focusing on his internship, amongst lots of other busy things, and it’s all so, very fine.

(fine until he slips up and does something as inherently stupid as showing up at some random art gallery just so he can feel closer to eliott again.)

“sorry, lucas,” yann says, hand running over his back in soothing circles. “i had no idea.”

“it’s fine.” lucas stands, attempting a weak smile. “don’t worry. i’m, uh. i’m quite tired, so.”

yann nods, understanding. it’s eight thirty-six p.m., and his heart feels too empty. he falls asleep thinking of obscured sunlight, of words that were never really said.

*

it’s summer 2017, they’re lying in the thick heat of eliott’s bedroom. mrs demaury, veronique, is baking downstairs, the smell of warm bread travels up the staircase and underneath the crack in the door. eliott is sprawled lazily over the bed next to him, reading some poetry book, and he looks so goddamn beautiful lucas feels breathless.

listen to this, he whispers, again and again. pages shifting quietly between his fingers. words slipping softly into the space between them. there’s something avidly fascinating about it, lucas decides. frightening, too, almost. listening to all of the different nuances in eliott’s voice when he reads out a line that he finds compelling enough to share. the breathtaking way his eyes light up against the dying summer light.

“and this one,” eliott says, so hushed lucas almost misses it. when he turns eliott has sat up slightly, the bottom of his shirt has ridden up, and lucas’ mouth goes dry. _“i burned so long and so quiet,”_ eliott reads, _“you must have wondered if i loved you back. i did, i did, i do.”_

a swirl of sunlight has fallen over eliott’s left shoulder. suddenly the heat is too much, the words feel too heavy, and the mention of love twists itself in lucas’ chest in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.

he’s choking. he can’t stop thinking, _i do, i do, i do._

_do you?_

“i love that one,” eliott mumbles, his lips curving upwards, softly, prettily. “what do you think?”

lucas tries his best not to scream. “yeah, it’s nice.”

eliott lets out a huff of breath, a slight laugh, perhaps. his eyes sweep over lucas’ face, a little intensely, but then lucas blinks and his focus falls back onto his book. as though a trick of light, gone before it was really there.

listen to this, lucas thinks, i love you. i do.

*

purple lights climb over the walls, curling, slow and then fast. or maybe they’re red. purple and red. yeah. there’s a glass of vodka coke in lucas’ hand, the rim of it clinks against his teeth as he dances. yann is grinning next to him, all tall and loose limbed, arthur too. basile had informed them that he was leaving about thirty minutes ago, daphné giggling behind him. lucas had told him to spare the details.

now it’s just the three of them, and lucas feels good. it’s exactly what he needed, to get out and forget about everything that’s been weighing him down recently.

“more drinks?” arthur yells over the thud of bass, his fingers curving into a c shape and his head tilting back.

lucas and yann both agree, and they begin to make their way over to the bar. (which, is when things start to go downhill for lucas, really.) they’re waiting to be served, squished in amongst all of the others queuing, when a familiar figure steps into the line adjacent to them. and lucas’ heart momentarily stops, because that’s — _yeah._

“idriss!” yann yells, grinning. lucas wants the ground to swallow him whole.

idriss bounds over to them, smile almost splitting at its seams, a splash of his drink spilling over the edge of his glass and onto the floor.

“oops. guys! hey! it’s been so long!”

“i know man!” arthur says, “how are you?”

swallowing, lucas warily peeks over idriss’ shoulder, a bit terrified, because wherever idriss is, honestly, what always seems to follow is shortly thereafter, tends to be — 

eliott.

and you would think, that after two years, lucas would have fallen at least a little immune to the effect eliott has on him. that stretch of added height, legs for days, the sharp grey of his eyes, the pretty swoop of his hair. that breathtaking smile. you would think two years of distance would do that to a person. yet, somehow, here he is, standing opposite lucas as idriss, yann and arthur excitedly share drunken catch ups, in all black, those bewildering purple lights falling over his face all prettily, and he’s not even _looking_ at lucas.

and lucas _can’t._ he can’t do this.

so he slips away. lets the waves of crowds pull him under and hopes that nobody will notice. he drifts between bodies until he makes it out into the smoking area where the air is less stiff, where, when he tilts his head back, he can just about make out a vague scattering of stars. they’re faint but they’re there, he notes, all shimmery and soft looking.

breathing out, deep and slow, lucas shuts his eyes, just like his mother always told him to do when he was younger, and he tries not to panic. the smell of smoke is potent in a way lucas knows will cling to his clothes and his hair in the morning, just another stupid thing that reminds him of eliott.

 _god._ eliott, eliott, eliott.

“hey.”

lucas startles. his eyes snap open, and there, adorned in the shadowy moonlight, is, of course, eliott.

something in lucas’ chest caves in. something sharp and quick, like a knife twisting.

“thought i’d find you here,” eliott says while beginning to fumble with a cigarette and lighter. lucas just stands there, a bit dumbstruck, unable to fathom any words.

“you —” he tries, before shaking his head with a frustrated sigh. all the months he spent wishing for this moment, and here he is, just _gaping_ at eliott like a complete _idiot._ “why’d you follow me?”

eliott laughs weakly around his cigarette, as if he hadn’t expected lucas to be so forward. “skipping straight past the pleasantries then, are we?”

“eliott it’s been two years.”

at this eliott looks away, downwards. a strange look settles over his face, one that lucas can’t quite place. he watches as eliott visibly swallows, as though preparing himself for something, before his eyes eventually flit up again, determined. it shouldn't feel as severe as it does when grey pools into deep blue. again, not after all of these months.

but even so, there is something devastatingly exquisite about the way the world seems to stop the moment that their eyes meet. the way, when eliott mutters his name, it sparks a feeling deep in lucas’ stomach that he’s never felt before.

“i know, lucas,” eliott says, “i want to explain.”

_explain. right._

it’s sort of silly, the way those words latch onto the tiny sliver of hope that still lives in lucas’ chest, how it grows like a flower blooming. or perhaps more like a weed, something that should have died a long time ago.

there is this one quote that lucas recalls vaguely reading in one of his old school textbooks. the words were faded from use but they had still stuck like a bruise that never really healed. _please don’t, above all, plant me in your heart,_ it said, _i grow too quick._

and he’d thought, as he sat crossed legged on his bedroom floor, the sunlight fading beyond his window, that’s exactly what it feels like. loving eliott. 

now, as he thinks of those same words, they still resonate with him, to an extent. it’s like being given a small sliver of hope only for it to be ripped right from you within seconds.

because if you tear a flower from its stem the root can still grow. or, in other words, eliott leaving him may have broken lucas apart, but it didn’t kill the way he felt. that love is still there and it still grows, stupidly, every single day. and it shouldn’t. really, after all this time, it shouldn’t.

but it does. like a stubborn root, still blooming into something more.

“i want to explain why i haven’t reached out in so long, if that’s okay with you,” eliott continues at lucas’ lack of response. “i understand if you’re too mad at me, or whatever, with the way things turned out. but i’d really like it if you gave me the chance to explain, please.”

momentarily, lucas is left confused, why would _he_ be mad at _eliott?_ sure, eliott hasn’t spoken to lucas in two years, but that’s mostly lucas’ doing. he knows that.

it’s just as lucas is about to speak this thought aloud that someone else approaches them from the side. 

“hey, guys, everything alright?”

 _lucille._

lucas’ stomach curls as she walks over to them and wraps an arm low around eliott’s waist, leaning into him. he feels a bit like he wants to cry when eliott automatically leans right back.

right, lucas thinks, of course. of course eliott and lucille are together now, still. after everything. and it’s not like lucas is the jealous type, eliott isn’t even _his —_ he never has been. but it’s just.

just it hurts, is all.

“we were just —” eliott begins to say. but lucas, he can’t. he can’t stand here and listen to eliott tell him how pathetic he is, to remind him of how he ruined their friendship by falling too hard, right in front of lucille. he doesn’t want to be reminded of what that kind of pain feels like.

“i was just leaving, actually,” lucas cuts in sharply, before turning so that he’s addressing eliott only. “i think we both know what happened, eliott. no point dragging up old wounds again, right?” he sends eliott a hard look, one that says, _please, don’t do this to me, not again, not now._

for a brief moment eliott only watches him, but lucas looks away before he can get too lost in the pity in eliott’s eyes. that’s the last thing he needs right now, for _eliott_ to be the one to apologise for the way lucas fucked everything up between them. especially when eliott has so clearly moved on.

“right,” eliott finally answers.

lucas nods, thinks, _good, glad we got that covered._ and without as much as a glance back, he’s gone.

  
  


*

so, back to two years ago. this time it’s winter, mika’s annual christmas party is in full swing, and lucas has been thinking, a lot, about eliott and about love. about that feeling he gets in his chest when eliott is close to him, one that feels a lot like light and summertime, despite the fact that it’s currently mid december.

still, eliott does this unexplainable thing to lucas’ heart that can only be attributed to that exact sensation of sunlight falling over skin on a warm day.

and okay, yeah. perhaps lucas is slightly tipsy right now, but it doesn’t lesson the fact that he’s been itching to do this for _weeks_ now. and he’s going to, tonight. he is.

he’s going to kiss eliott.

lately, there have been signs, see. small moments of loveliness that have led lucas to believe he may not be the only one feeling more than they’re letting on. for instance, eliott calling him up at two in the morning and saying endearing things like _i just wanted to hear your voice._ or the time he’d been talking about the future, about wanting to travel, how he’d said, _we could rent out a little rv, you know, drive all around europe in it together,_ and lucas had thought, with his heart pounding, _we. together._ even, just yesterday, how eliott had surprised him after his morning lecture with coffee and lucas’ favourite pastries from the coffee shop they’re always meeting at, because he had remembered a passing comment lucas made the week before about dreading this one particular lesson.

these are just a handful of the outrageously lovely things eliott has done, and continues to do, that cause lucas to think, maybe.

maybe eliott does feel the same. maybe he is just as terrified of saying it out loud as lucas is. maybe there is hope for this feeling that lives in lucas’ chest.

the flat is bustling. lucas, even with all his terror and fear and frayed edges, has reached a point of acceptance. and he knows what he wants, he knows what makes him happy, what makes him feel safe. eliott. eliott, his fondness for animal cartoons, his love for obscure music, the miracle that is his eyes on a sunny day. so he pushes through the crowds, determined. his heart is pounding frantically in his chest, but that’s okay. it’s only a result of the stake this holds. it’s worth it, he thinks, and he continues to push. he makes it through the living room, out into the hallway, ignoring basile’s cries for him to come and join in on the next game of beer pong, the calls of his name, and he’s slipping into the kitchen before he can talk himself out of it.

and, there is eliott. lucas catches a hazy glimpse of him through the misted up balcony doors. he’s laughing, head thrown back, full of life. and lucas can’t contain the way he grins, excitement curling up inside him. _i’m going to kiss you,_ he thinks, almost bursting with the thought, _finally, i’m going to do it._

he takes a step forwards, further into the kitchen, and that’s when he sees it. or, really, sees _her._ lucille. she’s leaning up against the balcony railing opposite eliott, and she’s laughing too, this shimmery glint in her eyes that has lucas frowning. somebody shifts next to him, pushing him to the side, and he grumbles. which, is when it happens, when the world crashes and suddenly eliott is leaning forwards, and he’s cupping lucille’s cheeks and he’s kissing her. smiling like the sun as he does.

everything around lucas shatters. noise fades out, his heartbeat quickens then stops altogether, as though it’s been ripped from his chest. eliott has pulled lucille closer, his hands wandering down to her waist, slowly, and —

and lucas can’t watch any longer.

lightheaded and dizzy, he turns, shouldering his way out of the kitchen. grabbing his jacket is more of an afterthought, and then he’s stumbling down the stairs, almost tripping over his own feet because he can’t quite see past the tears in his eyes. all while cursing himself for being so outrageously stupid, _careless,_ even, with his own feelings.

for almost ruining everything by giving up his heart, just like that.

it’s clear now, more than ever, where eliott stands. so lucas takes one last look at mika’s flat, at his dying heart, flailing weakly on the pavement, and he leaves it there, crushed.

(after, it goes like this. lucas wakes up the next morning with a hangover from hell and a million texts from eliott asking where he went. it takes approximately ten seconds for the events of the night before to come flooding back to lucas, and it feels like a wall has come crashing down on him.

and so it goes like this: lucas tries his hardest not to cry when he types out a reply to eliott saying he had felt unwell, and not to worry. then he lies and says he has plans when eliott asks if he wants to meet, and he continues to do that for the entire week. because he needs _time._ if eliott is going to kiss lucille at parties while lucas is still so incredibly in love with him, then he needs to take a few days to sort out the mess in his head. because heartache, they say, it aches like a burn but then it will pass. so that’s exactly what lucas does — he takes some time, and he avoids, avoids, avoids, until eliott eventually gives up. until it doesn’t hurt as much to think of him.

until three weeks later, when lucas finally feels strong enough to reach out. he sends a simple, _can we talk?_ text that goes unanswered. a call that gets declined.

until, soon enough, three weeks drift to four, ten, then twenty. until he blinks and two years have gone by, and heartache, sadly, just becomes another thing he has to learn to live with.)

*

lucas is halfway home from the club when he gets the text. he hadn’t informed yann or arthur that he’d left early, but he’s sure they’d just assume he got bored and made his own way back, anyway.

a light flickers in the dark sky overhead, a plane taking off. lucas tilts his head back and lazily follows it with his eyes. he thinks about how nice it would be to fly away right now, to escape all of these feelings that have been dragged up. he watches the little flickering light until it disappears into the clouds, until he feels his phone vibrate against his thigh.

**_from: eliott 🌤_ **

_please can we talk_

lucas blinks at the words until his phone fades to black. the alcohol in his body has simmered down to a muted dull by now, one that the ache in his heart can no longer hide behind.

he thinks, absently, that he should probably change eliott’s contact name. but he doesn’t have the energy, and it would probably hurt too much, anyway, to do that now.

so the phone gets shoved back into his pocket, as if six feet under dirt.

he doesn’t need his heart broken twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a part two coming don’t worry!!!
> 
> the quote eliott reads from his poetry book is by annelyse gelman, from “the pillowcase” in “everyone i love is a stranger to someone.” and the quote from lucas’ textbook is from “sonnets to orpheus” by rainer maria rilke.
> 
> thank u so much for reading. my tumblr is [@lumierelovers](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/) pls come say hi!! 🌤


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i truly meant for this update to take a week and not a month, but we all know how terrible my update schedule is by now. anyway, i hope you enjoy, hopefully it's okay <3

when eliott turned eighteen, his father taught him how to drive. 

it always seemed like a nice sentiment, to lucas, since the relationship he has with his own father has always been a patchwork thing. layers that have been stitched together and then ripped apart too many times for it to be ever okay again. still, it was comforting to know that out of the two of them, at least eliott had a support system he could always hold close.

once eliott finally got his licence, he was allowed to take lucas out with him in the beat-up clio that was passed down from his older brother. and so they’d drive out into the suburbs together, while the sun slipped away, and as the sky faded from blue to purple to pink, like the world outside was nothing but a fragment to the little universe they had created inside that car. some old rock tune would be playing, or an obnoxious dubstep number — depending on who got to the aux first. and they’d just drive for miles, singing and laughing and watching as the sun set in the skyline ahead.

lucas, in those moments, remembers feeling on top of the world, completely free.

eliott gave those moments to him, like he was something worthy of being cherished. and memories like that are ones you hold close forever, faded into an old polaroid or pencilled into a notebook, a poem or a letter, something you can look back at and smile as your chest curls up — like your heart is a flower.

he doesn’t mean to find it, at the bottom of a box filled with tatty things, folded up in the centre of an old textbook — a drawing of a racoon and a hedgehog in a beat-up clio, parked on a hill as they smile and watch the sunset.

_do you think all of the universes feel like this one? they must, right?_

what is a feeling, anyway, lucas thinks, if not a trembling of the heart? or knowing that a memory can never die, as long as you hold onto it tightly enough.

*

it’s the third day after the incident at the club, and it begins with the thought unfurling in lucas’ stomach that love is a tormenting thing, isn’t it? at least when it never seems to work on your side.

yann is fussing by the window in the living room. his new spider plant appears to have taken on a withering exterior. and lucas is spread out over the sofa, frowning at the ceiling.

“has he called today yet?” yann asks.

lucas, from his questionably comfortable position on the couch, blinks at yann past the bright morning light.

“not yet,” he answers quietly, “he texted.”

“yeah? what does it say?”

see, in the days since lucas last saw eliott, there have been at least six instances where eliott has tried to contact him. and it’s not like lucas is ignoring him — or, well, maybe he is. just a bit. and, ultimately, you could say that’s sort of contradictory of him, after everything, but the truth is that lucas just doesn’t want to talk to eliott when he can already vividly see the outcome of such conversation. 

eliott would say that he’s sorry for not talking to lucas all of these years, but that he wants to try and be friends again, and lucas would, probably, tell him that it’s fine. and maybe they would become friends again or maybe they wouldn’t. either way, lucas will have to be the one, in the end, who has to deal with the devastating fact that eliott is in love with lucille and not him. because it’s never him, for eliott.

it never has been him.

and he can’t go through that kind of heartbreak, not again.

he sighs, pulling out his phone. “it says, _i really need to talk to you,”_ he reads in a shaky monotone. “i didn’t reply. obviously.”

“maybe you should,” yann responds. 

lucas sits up abruptly. “you — _what?_ are you serious?”

when yann makes his way over to lucas, bertha the spider plant left aside, it’s with an unsettling level of caution. lucas swallows.

“i just think you should hear him out. you guys were so close just a few years ago, and you literally said it yourself — he was your best friend, you can't just forget about that.”

lucas frowns. _“you’re_ my best friend, idiot,” he argues weakly, poking yann’s thigh with his socked foot.

laughing softly, yann looks at lucas, and it’s entirely fond, the way he does. “maybe,” he shrugs, “but with eliott is was different, right? it was special.”

at this lucas looks away briefly. but he can feel yann watching him, intently, as though searching for something in the disorder of lucas’ mind. amidst the wreckage, though, he’s unable to fathom a response. yann sighs. “lucas,” he says, assertive. “look at bertha.” when lucas only frowns, yann speaks louder and points frenziedly at his plant. “look at bertha! look at how sad she is.”

“that’s because you forgot to water her for three weeks straight.” lucas stares flatly at him. “what’s your point?”

“my point is exactly _that._ i haven’t been showing her any love, and now look at her, she’s all wilted and dying! you, lucas,” he says, seriously, pointing at lucas, “are like my houseplant. you aren’t getting any love, because you aren’t letting anyone in, and it’s killing you. i can see it is. you’re hurting, man. you’ve been hurting for two years now. and i really think that talking to eliott will help give you some closure, you know, whether it works out the way you want it to or not, i still believe it’s important that you do so. for yourself more than anything.”

taking in yann’s words, lucas watches bertha, sullenly, and he asks. “i don’t actually look _that_ pathetic though, do i?”

“shut up —” yann chuckles unexpectedly, pinching lucas’ arm. “i’m being serious, lucas. just think about it, please?”

despite the fact that it terrifies the hell out of lucas, and despite the fact that even just _thinking_ about why he and eliott grew apart shatters him enough already, nevermind actually _talking_ about it. despite all of this, lucas, as best he can, manages a smile, a small one — shadowed by fear and heartache and regret — but still, it’s there, and he says, “okay. i’ll think about it. thank you.” even though he knows he probably won’t, because it hurts too much, because it, somehow, still feels too raw.

mostly, though, because eliott and love are just two things that lucas should have never let take root in his heart, and that much is certain.

*

growing up, quickly lucas learns that eliott likes to create things that are beautiful. he learns that beauty often manifests itself into the smallest of moments, the briefest of smiles, the most gentle of touches. he comes to know the stains that regularly cover eliott’s skin — paint on his fingertips, along his hands, arms. maybe blue, or purple, or loads all at once. and lucas will study them, ask, _what were you painting?_

one time, with yellow and gold swirling together, eliott says, _the sun._ and the light of street lamps are just beginning to flicker on, faint like little stars, all shadowy over the side of eliott’s face. and maybe lucas is tipsy, off the drinks at the bar and the feeling of eliott’s shoulder knocking against his. but still, there’s something beautiful about the way eliott speaks about how the sun had spread itself all over his blank canvas like bleeding light. how his eyes glisten in the night that wraps around them, how, even the cold of the november wind isn’t enough to overshadow the warmth of eliott walking next to him.

it becomes a game, almost, to look at eliott’s hands and try to guess what he’s been painting. when they’re blue, lucas will ask, _the sea, right?_ and eliott will grin, softly, startled, say, _how did you know?_

another time — they’re in the library, books strewn all around them. and lucas, for the life of him, cannot figure out the pattern of shades that have dried along eliott’s right hand. he thinks, firstly, maybe the sky, or another sunset. but no, it’s not that. so he asks, lightly, curious, _what did you paint today?_ and eliott shrugs, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of red, and he says, _you._

when lucas is eighteen, he learns that eliott’s hands are kaleidoscopes. constantly changing in their barest of forms; reflecting pretty things that make lucas’ chest ache.

*

days pass. and then weeks.

lucas gets busy. maybe on purpose, maybe because, lately, it feels a lot like his chest has been hollowed out. like all of those feelings he’s managed to shove down and cover over these past few years have just been dug up and spread out for everyone to see.

he goes to work and hangs out with the guys when he has the time, but he does a terrible job of finding it. mostly, he tries not to think about eliott — although, he does a terrible job of that, too.

it rains for the first time in two months while lucas is waiting in line for his coffee. the soft patter of it causes him to glance up from his phone. droplets form on the glass of the coffee shop windows like constellations, before splitting and sliding down, into one another. 

it comes with the realisation that summer is slowly breaking.

lucas blinks, and his name is being called. the inflection of it evokes something familiar in his chest, a feeling that, when he turns to find eliott standing behind the counter, unravels.

“oh,” lucas blurts out, stepping in front of him, “i didn’t know you worked here.”

the smile eliott sends him is uncharacteristically charming — it makes lucas feel breathless. he sucks in a breath, hopes that the notion of it is weakened by the bustle of the coffee shop.

“well, i’m new,” eliott says, his shoulders bunching up. he lets out an amused huff. “do you come here often?”

“sometimes,” lucas answers. eyes darting to the queue forming behind him, then back to eliott. he thinks about all of the unanswered texts on his phone, burning through the pocket of his jeans.

it burns more, however, knowing that eliott is right there, inches in front of him, and he can’t reach out.

nodding, eliott reaches for something next to him, before presenting a takeaway cup across the counter.

lucas blinks at it dumbfoundedly. “but i haven’t ordered yet.”

eliott shrugs, says, softly, “i know.”

he has yellow paint drying on his hands, lucas notes. he finds himself wanting to ask, like a child, _what were you painting? i want to know. i miss knowing you._ eliott is smiling at him, still, all fond and open. the question gets pushed down. eliott isn’t his to know anymore, probably never has been.

lucas takes the drink, ignoring the brief brush of their fingers. then he pays quickly, before sending eliott a stiff smile. in seconds he’s out the door, heart splintering in his ribcage.

it’s a chai tea latte, he discovers, after he’s crossed the road and taken a sip. the drink he’d always order when they went for coffee together, years ago. and his favourite, still.

he thinks, a little hopefully, warm drink pressed to his chest, _he knows me still._

*

lucas is on his third drink when he sees him.

the party is in full swing. yann is mixing an assortment of drinks on the kitchen counter, emma and alexia laughing next to him. basile and daphné are dancing in the living room, arthur is out on the balcony with idriss and sofiane and — yeah, eliott.

and lucas — lucas is here. stuck midway between the kitchen and hallway of emma’s new flat, cup paused before his mouth, staring as eliott pushes himself off the balcony railing and makes his way inside.

he thinks it’s strange, maybe, how they’ve ended up here, in the same place that it ended. sort of.

he makes a quick escape, turning from his frozen position and shouldering his way through the crowd. but a hand finds his forearm almost instantly, and he turns to find eliott watching him with a stern look.

“fuck lucas, for once would you stop running from me?”

lucas frees his arm, huffing. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“you—“ eliott begins to say, but lucas _can’t._ he can’t do it. he spots imane across the room, and takes the opportunity, mumbling a vague excuse to eliott before slipping away again, eaten up by the crowd.

imane welcomes him excitedly, tugging him by the arm until he’s able to breathe a little better, until the music starts to block out the waves of his mind as he begins to dance. until the song shifts onto something familiar, and everyone goes wild.

and it’s easy, for a while, to ignore how eliott stands in the corner alone, nursing his drink. it’s easy to overlook as some people approach him, and as he laughs and laughs, and tips his head right back, gleaming like sunlight personified. as the coloured lights fall over his face all sharp and shadowy. as one girl gets particularly close to him, before eliott takes a step away. as idriss soon joins and they sway together to the low hum of music.

it’s easy — until it’s not.

“you’re staring,” imane leans into his ear to say. lucas rips his gaze away. when he looks at imane she’s smiling, gently, and there’s a look in her eyes that reminds lucas a lot of that same one she’d always send him back in high school. “what are you so afraid of?” she yells over the music.

and lucas — he blinks at her. because that’s just the thing, isn’t it? he’s afraid. _he’s_ _terrified._ terrified of this thing in his chest that’s been trying to break through the gaps in his ribs since he was sixteen and the thought of love was just beginning to unravel. he’s scared of feeling too much, of always loving, loving, loving, yet always being the one left behind. he’s terrified of everything, and the thought of eliott knowing how he feels completely numbs him.

“i don’t want to lose him,” lucas says eventually, thinks, _it would kill me to lose him._

imane smiles at him sadly, stops dancing, says, “don’t you think you already are?” and it hits lucas, hard, how right she is, that there are now two years of eliott’s life that lucas knows nothing about.

imane sends him one last look, before patting him on the back and moving to join alexia and manon further on the dancefloor.

lucas escapes to the balcony. he’s relieved to find it unoccupied, as he stumbles forwards to lean his elbows against the railing, breathing heavily.

“you know—” suddenly, breath is warm on the side of his face, the place where arms press together burns, and suddenly the air is full, full, _full_ of him. of eliott. and it’s _too much,_ “—you’re very hard to get in contact with. like the secret service, or something.” he adds, like an afterthought, “you’re really stubborn.”

lucas’ makes a weak attempt at controlling his breathing. “i’ve been...busy,” he replies, a little dumbly.

eliott only hums, before he’s leaning away and the warmth of him dissipates.

“well, okay then,” he says, letting a brief silence linger before he speaks again, this time with a more casual cadence. “how have you been? i heard you started a new internship?”

momentarily, lucas blinks at him. there’s something heart wrenching in the reminder that eliott has missed so much of his life, and vice versa. his graduation, his twenty-first birthday, the day he got accepted for his dream internship. _god,_ even the time he found a limited edition pink floyd vinyl at the second hand record shop in town and couldn't even tell eliott about it.

he finds himself thinking of that evening he went to the gallery, weeks ago. of that painting he found there, _sunlight just before an eclipse._ and he thinks about how that’s a lot what this feels like, having someone so close to you ripped away, how, in one moment, everything feels like light, and the next, it’s gone. and how lonely that feels, when a person as constant as sunlight is taken from you.

it _hurts._

“yeah,” lucas says, “it’s — i’ve been good.” it’s a lie, he thinks, _i miss you so much some days i can’t even get out of bed._ he clears his throat. “how about you?”

“yeah — i mean, i’ve been okay.”

the balcony door slides open, and a few girls lucas doesn’t recognise spill out, giggling and singing. eliott’s gaze snaps over to them momentarily, before he looks back at lucas.

“come with me?” is spoken out, soft, devastatingly soft and familiar and _warm,_ and lucas’ breath shudders. slowly, looking up, he prays that no one has noticed the sudden quivering of his heart, the quickening of his pulse.

lucas feels the rise of a response in his chest, but it gets caught somewhere in his throat when he catches the hopeful look in eliott’s eyes, and all he can do is nod, wordlessly, and let eliott take him by the hand and pull him back inside, back through the living room and out of the front door. he then pulls lucas up the creaky stairway, until they reach the door that leads out onto the apartment rooftop.

“what are you doing?” lucas asks once they’ve stepped outside and stopped by the railing which looks out over the city, the blazing sunset.

against the soft glow of dusk, the streets of paris are an illusion of shadow, buildings and cobblestones silhouetted by faint golds. and they stand there, eliott and him. centimetres apart — or inches, probably — their breathing murmuring like memories dug up, sharp and rigid. something about it feels significant. lucas hasn’t let his happen in two years, him, alone with eliott, where he can’t use an excuse to slip away. and it’s a lot quieter here, peaceful, almost.

“it’s beautiful up here,” eliott says, carefully, almost gently. “and i needed to talk to you.” 

eliott is looking at the sky. the exquisite picture he makes in the afternoon light reminds lucas a lot of that same painting. the sun in all vivid shades of gold and white, skyline a hazy brushstroke ahead. only, this time, eliott is here, and the sun is a real thing in front of them, no moon in sight. there’s nothing for either of them to hide behind. and lucas has to try very hard not to let his heart spill out of him.

it’s still fairly bright out, so when eliott looks over, lucas notices, there’s a certain light about him — one that had gone unnoticed before, amidst the panic of seeing each other again for the first time in two years, in the dark of the club, the panic of the coffee shop. though it’s distinct, now. he looks a little older, naturally, but his eyes have that same nebula about them, hazy grey but bluer as they hit off the afternoon sun. a perplexing shade that lucas remembers vaguely comparing to a winter sunset in his head at seventeen, or when the moon comes out while the sky is still light. he’s all watercolours and bleeding light and longing for more.

presently, lucas shakes the thoughts away, pushes them so far down in his chest until he can almost ignore the burn of them.

“talk to me?” he answers eventually. he thinks of yann’s words from a while ago, _i think talking to eliott will help give you some closure._ and — yeah, closure. maybe that’s what this is, what lucas needs. maybe this will be good, to talk everything out and then let it burn out, like a dying flame. maybe, then, being around eliott won’t hurt so much.

“yes.” eliott lets out a huff of breath. “i’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks, okay? and maybe you don’t want to hear what i have to say, after all these years, i was going to let it go — maybe i _should_ let it go, but i just — i can’t, lucas. so will you please just hear me out for like two minutes?”

_two minutes,_ lucas thinks, as he turns to face the sun setting over the city, _two minutes for you to break my heart all over again._

maybe it’s the slight desperation in eliott’s eyes, the ghostly purple shadows that frame them, like he hasn’t slept much in days, that causes lucas to turn to him. maybe it’s that little seed of hope that still lives in his chest that makes him nod, and say, “okay, i’m listening.” maybe it’s foolish, to entertain the thought, the flimsy belief that love and all of its parts could align like the stars do every night, and that things will turn out okay.

all too well, lucas knows, though, hope can be misleading, and stars are untouchable things, anyway.

eliott exhales. “i miss you more than anything, is what i want you to know first. that there hasn’t been a single day these past two years that i haven’t thought about you.” lowly, lucas’ breath hitches. he isn’t sure if eliott hears, or if he pretends not to. but something about the confession steals every last breath of air from his flailing lungs. “you’re like, the most important person in my life,” eliott continues, “and i’ve been really stupid with how i’ve handled that, lately — or what i mean is that i haven’t been very good at showing you how much you mean to me.”

lucas is at a loss as to what eliott is getting at, although his heart begins to beat unevenly at the insinuation. he tries to push the feeling down, hand reaching for the railing, squeezing. “i don’t think lucille would like to hear you say that,” he huffs, thinks, _she should be the most important person in your life, not me,_ but when eliott only looks at him confused, he prompts, slightly annoyed now, “your _girlfriend?”_

“what are you talking about?” there’s a curious inflection in eliott’s tone. the breath that spills past lucas’ lips is part agitated, mostly hurt. because eliott _knows._ he _must_ know. there’s no way he hasn’t noticed the way lucas used to look at him, the way that he probably still does. there’s no way eliott, over all these years, hasn’t heard how loudly lucas’ heart beats around him, how, even now, still, it pushes up against his ribcage as though reaching for the sun, aching. “lucille is just a friend.”

“right,” lucas scoffs, “and you kiss all of your friends then, do you?” _all of them except me._

eliott frowns. “what—“

“—the night of mika’s christmas party, i saw you kissing her.”

something settles over eliott’s face, slowly then all at once. it’s something like fear, or realisation, maybe dread. but lucas can’t figure it out. 

“oh,” eliott breathes, so softly. “you saw that?”

“yes, eliott,” lucas says, narrowing his eyes. annoyance unfurls in his stomach, slowly. he knows he sounds pathetic, sounding bitter over a kiss that happened so long ago, but it’s just —

just, when he thinks about eliott kissing someone that isn’t him, it sort of makes him want to cry.

eliott looks down, his hands are all twisted up in the bottom of his t-shirt. “i didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“just that — that it was a mistake, kissing lucille. the only reason i did it was because i wanted to kiss someone else, like, really badly, but i didn’t think they felt the same. so i acted out a bit, i was upset and it was stupid.” he shakes his head sadly. “we aren’t dating though,” he says very seriously, like he needs lucas to know, “we never have. but i still shouldn’t have done it.”

“oh,” lucas breathes, his heart sinking, “someone else?”

“yeah.” eliott takes a step closer.

lucas bites onto the inside of his cheek. “who?”

“are you really going to make me say it?”

“what — i don’t,” lucas frowns, hands folding over his chest, “i don’t understand.”

eliott’s jaw hardens, all stubborn and defensive in a way that lucas finds half terrifying, half endearing.

“well i know i wasn’t very discreet about it — wasn’t very good at hiding it,” eliott says, and lucas is so confused he wants to scream. “and then you were avoiding me for weeks, lucas, i thought that you’d figured it out and it’d made things weird. i didn’t know how to deal with that. so i convinced myself it would hurt less if i took a step back rather than to hear you say you didn’t feel the same.”

and, _what —_

eliott continues before lucas can say anything. “i thought i could move on, you know, and it got easier after a while, when i didn’t have to see you everyday. but then i ran into you in that club and i — it just hit me, hard, all over again.” he lets out a low, wet chuckle, and if lucas didn’t know any better, he’d think it looks a lot like he’s holding back tears. something in the air unravels. “i’m still so in love with you, lucas,” eliott finishes, and lucas’ heart, he thinks, stops. eliott has taken another step closer, and suddenly the space between them is so slight lucas can feel his breath as he speaks. and when eliott’s eyes meet lucas’, it’s in a way that’s so intense it makes lucas’ knees feel weak. “lucas,” he says. his next words are so sharp, yet softened by the way he reaches out and places a hand next to lucas’ on the railing so that their pinkies almost touch, “say something.”

the blood in lucas’ head flushes away, down, down, out of his body, over the hard ground. messy. he wonders if he’ll ever be able to wash out the stain of it.

_i’m still so in love with you —_

not was, but _still._

still.

“eliott—” lucas shudders, all forms of words leaving him entirely. all that he can manage is the breathy utter of the one thing that’s been pressing down on his heart for years. amidst the shock, though, he’s able to spill out _something._ “do you — do you mean that, like, really? you know you can’t take something like that back?

“yes.” the centimeters that separate them slip away, and when eliott fits his hand along the curve of lucas’ jaw, it feels a lot like the ground has split from beneath them, and lucas falls, hard. eliott tilts his face up, slightly, carefully. in the background, lucas can see the sun beginning to slip away, bright orange spilling all over eliott’s right shoulder. and as their foreheads press together, he holds his breath. he can’t stop thinking, _surely not._ but eliott’s smiling, softly, and he’s saying, whispering, “i feel like i’ve loved you my whole life.”

lucas kisses him. he takes eliott by the shoulders and with every last breath left in him, he kisses him.

eliott melts into it, pressing himself closer and then licking into lucas’ mouth when he gasps at the sensation. he tastes sweet, like a home, and lucas unravels under gentle the push and pull of it all.

his hands wander into eliott’s hair. it’s so soft, and warm, too, from where the sun hits off it. eliott is still cupping his cheeks, firm as though he’s afraid lucas might disappear. and the weight that’s been pushing lucas down all these years falls away and suddenly there is all light, everywhere. it pours out of them, like sunlight spilling in through a window, all bright and warm. and it hits him, eliott is kissing him, _eliott loves him._

lucas is smiling so hard he has to break away.

eliott lets out a shuddery breath. their foreheads are still pressed together. lucas untangles his hands from eliott’s hair and cradles his face, and eliott grins, his eyes crinkling up at the sides. it’s a wonder, lucas thinks, to hold the sun between your hands and watch it burn. it feels like finally having the courage to do that one scary thing.

“i love you too, if you couldn’t tell,” he whispers against eliott’s lips, against the smile that presses into his. “i’m so in love with you.”

it feels like falling and burning and catching alight.

“yeah?”

lucas nods, laughing wetly. eliott is still holding his face so tenderly, like he’s made from glass, and lucas wants to be kissed again so badly his chest hurts.

he tilts his chin back up, and their lips catch. this time eliott walks him into the railing, and lucas’ back arches against it, his breath spilling out in broken clauses as eliott kisses him deeper, hard, like it’s everything. and it is, lucas thinks, everything.

“you’re so beautiful,” eliott says on a gasp, breaking away, thumb pressing into lucas’ cheek. lucas feels it flush under the touch, feels it all the way down to his chest. “i’m so sorry i pushed you away, _god,_ how was i so stupid?”

lucas places a hand over his. “i’m sorry for everything too, you know,” he says, creating some space between them but still keeping eliott close enough to link their hands together. “i thought — well, i thought that we had something, maybe, before. i thought that the way i felt about you was the same as how you felt about me. and i was going to do it, tell you. i was going to tell you that night, but then i saw you with lucille. and i — i’ve never felt so stupid, _god._ i felt so dumb,” lucas huffs lightly, “i thought that i was being so obvious about how i felt that i scared you off.”

“no,” eliott shakes his head, a breathy laugh spilling out, a hand caressing lucas’ cheek. “no, darling. you didn’t, i thought that i’d scared _you_ off. i was being really fucking stupid, and i’m sorry i made you feel like that. i’ll never do it again.”

“it’s okay,” lucas says, smiling softly, “we were both being stupid. but hey, we’re here now, right? we can do better this time.”

“right,” eliott breathes, lightly, so full of light. “and i’m never letting you go again.”

“good,” lucas smiles, “me neither.”

when eliott kisses him again, it feels like coming home. in the distance, a slow awakening begins, and the sun looms over paris, blazing orange and vibrant gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading! let me know what u think hehe or come talk to me on tumblr [@lumierelovers](https://lumierelovers.tumblr.com/) ! 🦋


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